


Touch of A Formless Thing

by MindfulExorcism



Series: The Watcher and His God [3]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Fucking so hard your boyfriend goes incorporeal, It's been a long year I need it, M/M, Two dudes chilling under a tree, god!hunter, no beta we die like gods, yeah it's one of Those Fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulExorcism/pseuds/MindfulExorcism
Summary: He’d been told, once, that god was an incomprehensible thing; that as soon as you fitted it into your head, it no longer was a god, but flawed and banal as anything else you could touch or see. Then again, the fact he could touch or see him at all was something incomprehensible in and of itself.
Relationships: Alfred/The Hunter (Bloodborne)
Series: The Watcher and His God [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079993
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	Touch of A Formless Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas ya filthy animals

Someone once told Alfred that god was a formless thing — everywhere and nowhere, in both the sky and the ground and the very bones of the faithful, always present, always watching. 

He used to think he could feel this. His blood singing in battle was a nameless divine choir, ushering him on, and the very rain and smoke that coated his skin were blessings from above. 

He used to think that God was within him, much like his master’s creed. 

This, of course, was entirely untrue, and he learned it in both the most merciful and most vicious way possible. 

It was during one of those easy little moments, early on, when they were still getting used to one another and growing accustomed to the silence that stretched between them. The hunter was a quiet man, and it was something of a relief not to fill the air with unnecessary chatter. There was only the wind; the scent of flowers; warmth next to him, and a heartbeat as slow as the ocean. 

Alfred wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not. Could gods sleep? The hunter seemed to, dozing off curled around him, his breath soft against Alfred’s neck as he dreamt of things unknowable. 

Time had no meaning in that place under the tree. The flowers stayed at the apex of their bloom. The wind came and went. The moon stayed thin as a sickle, rising and falling only when it needed to. Like that first bloodsoaked fire-licked night he’d spent in Yharnam, any time he left the dream would be the same as when he entered it. 

It was likely just as well, since sleeping didn’t bear the guilt of a neglected duty. However, Alfred wondered, now and again, if one day he would enter the dream and never leave. 

(He’d been told, once, that a god was an incomprehensible thing; that as soon as you fitted it into your head, it no longer was a god, but flawed and banal as anything else you could touch or see. Then again, the fact he could touch or see him at all was something incomprehensible in and of itself.)

The hunter shifted, pulling himself closer. Alfred moved to accommodate him; as he did, he felt the hunter shift again, and then a soft kiss pressed to his lips.

Alfred curled his arms around him, pulling the hunter’s body over his own, letting his legs settle in between his thighs. Fingers tangled in his curls, and the hunter kissed him again; lips cool, a hum drowning in his throat. 

Alfred sighed, opening himself up to him. He was being kissed all over, now — on the eyes and cheeks and his brow, travelling down his neck. There was affection in his movement, the loving way his fingertips pressed into his scalp, and the way the hunter’s teeth grazed his skin. Alfred could almost laugh, wait to be devoured. 

His hands snaked under the hunter’s shirt, feeling warm skin, pulling fabric away. The hunter did the same, undoing the buttons on Alfred front and peeling off his garments one by one. 

(Alfred knew he could simply will them away, vanish them into the nothingness of the dream; such being the power of a god. But the hunter seemed to take pleasure in it, taking each layer off piece by piece like he was something to be unwrapped.)

“Ah, _fuck,_ ” Alfred hissed, feeling cold hands trace over his chest. The hunter grinned into the skin of his neck, the rumble of his laugh muffled against his shoulder. 

“I can play you,” the hunter muttered, bringing his lips to Alfred’s ear, “like a _fiddle._ ”

“Oh, quiet, y—” his retort was cut off when the hunter bit his shoulder, his words quickly devolving into a moan. 

After that, there was little more to say. Thought drowned in sensation — there was heat, lovely and all-encompassing, closeness, the smell of sweat, lips against his, fingers pressed in his hair, nails scratching down his arms…

Alfred closed his eyes, lost in it all. Simply smelling, tasting, touching, feeling himself wind tighter, getting closer, the hunter tensing above him….

The hunter cursed. The was a sensation of heat, euphoria…

And then nothing. 

“ _Hell_!” a voice that there, but not quite there, said. 

Alfred froze. The hunter’s body was no longer on him. Strangely, he still felt its heat — perhaps moreso, for now it was everywhere and on him instead of contained to one place, even without the weight.

Opening one’s eyes in the presence of a dread god what generally inadvisable. He _did_ have sedative as a contingency, but there were certain things his lover made clear he wished to remain forever unseen. 

Now, however, seemed to be a different case entirely. Alfred blinked, squinting through the now-brighter moonlight that filled the clearing…

And saw nothing. 

He sat up. That sensation was still there — it buzzed on his skin and in his chest, an odd prickle that made him feel as though he were being watched. 

He looked around. The flowers, though untrampled, flickered a little. Strangely, though, there didn’t seem to be any wind. 

The hunter was still nowhere to be seen. 

“Are you there?” he said, his voice soft. 

A sound like a sigh. It was all around him, tired, resigned, both far away and humming in his ear.

“I am,” the hunter’s voice said. It slid its way between the silence, almost as though it were in a sentence in a book-passage than something spoken aloud. 

Alfred tensed. “Where are you?”

“Here.” Another sigh. “Damn it, I’ve gone incorporeal…”

“So you have become…?” 

“Formless.” The words settled into his thoughts. There was a name that usually accompanied that, unspoken for what might have been years, if not longer. Perhaps it was because its owner was dead. Perhaps it was because its owner was sleeping, and uttering it would awaken something best left undisturbed. 

“I didn’t mean to,” the hunter said, his voice apologetic. “I’ve done it before, but not around you… bugger, I must have lost myself…”

Alfred didn’t reply. His skin prickled, his hairs raising involuntarily along his arms and nape. He’d felt this before — a shadow of it, in those times when the hunter would press his hand over his eyes and bid not open them — but usually there’d be something _attached,_ physical, that he could anchor himself to.

“I’m here,” the hunter said, his voice soft. “Just… around. I’ll likely be back in a moment, I’m still not entirely used to it.”

Alfred still didn’t reply. All around him, he felt it — warmth, presence, like he was wrapped in thick sheets. It danced on the edge of his senses. The air he breathed felt different — thicker, grander. There was a sound, too, beyond the hunter’s quiet voice, too far away to hear properly. If he strained, it sounded like a slow, distant heartbeat, thudding in his chest next to his own. 

He shuddered, closing his eyes again. Every day he thought the truth he once believed had been fully ripped from him, seam by seam, in its entirety; now and again, however, there would prove to be a pernicious stitch remaining, waiting to be pulled away and leave him bleeding. 

And when little moments like this would come, Alfred would be reminded, with the ferocity and subtly of a needle, that he was the only thing in Yharnam still left remembering and whole. 

If, perhaps, you could even call him that. 

The hunter seemed to sense this, through sight or intuition, Alfred didn’t know. The air around him shifted, growing heavier, and something like the weight from before pressed on his abdomen, though still lighter than before.

Alfred relaxed, though he still kept his eyes closed. 

“You’ve an endless amount of patience with me,” the hunter said, mirth at the edge of his strange voice. “I still don’t understand it.”

“And nor can I, you,” Alfred said. “Perhaps we are mutually inclined in that aspect.”

“Perhaps.” 

The weight was growing heavier, now, and the hum in Alfred’s ears is growing quieter. Slowly, he felt the edges of him again — fingertips pressed into his shoulders, weight on his body, legs curled around his — until it all condensed, and he felt a heartbeat settle outside his chest. 

Alfred opened his eyes again. The hunter stared back at him, ice-blue gaze wrinkled slightly in sheepishness. 

“I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again,” he said. “I _am_ getting better at it, truly, though it will likely take more practice…”

There was a god laying on him, one that could rend his flesh and drink his blood and tear every last particle in him to nonexsistence; and yet here he lay, warm, smelling of the moon, and of all things, apologetic. 

Human and inhuman. Comprehensible and unending. Contending and nonsensical. 

Alfred pressed him lips to the hunter’s forehead, grateful for the feeling for his skin. Fingers traced along his jaw, and a grin tugged at his lips. 

All these things, contradicting. The affection of a god was a vicious thing.

Ah, well. What was love for?


End file.
